


in the space between two untranslatable words

by Ghostigos



Series: grow fonder [1]
Category: South Park
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Autistic Craig, Established Relationship, Friendship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, POV Second Person, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-09
Updated: 2018-05-09
Packaged: 2019-05-04 11:33:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14592132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghostigos/pseuds/Ghostigos
Summary: Craig asks a question. He doesn't know why this leads to further complications.





	in the space between two untranslatable words

**Author's Note:**

> ( _I worry that my friends will misunderstand my silence as a lack of love - instead of a tent city built for my own mind_ )
> 
> back in middle school i was kinda That Kid, so here's a little something for baby Edgy(TM) me that was too chicken to make this fic. you're welcome, kid; ya goofed a bunch but you ended up pretty okay in the end.
> 
> as always, i'm just here for The Gays. sorry if i got some facts/characterizations warped in the process; usually i watch the show kinda out of order lol
> 
> (if you squint you can spot a few pairs that i used to ship religiously, haha)

"Do you think we should break up?" you ask.

Even you're not that detached from empathy to understand that it's a pretty loaded question. You've been home for less than two days and already you're dropping some heavy interrogation onto Tweek's lap, watching him cease his shelf-restocking chore to still. It's an uncharacteristic manner, you think, that he doesn't immediately snap his head around to gawk at you. There's a foreign solace you experience, however selfish you suppose it is, that your boyfriend's jittery nature hasn't expanded the inquiry into something disproportionately bigger. But from where you're standing you can see a sole back muscle twitch, then his fingertips quiver on the cup he's holding, then nothing.

Tweek's shoulders lift and retract with a rehearsed breath; whomever this nth doctor is that he's seeing on a weekly basis, you have to admire the efficacy of the appointments.

"I...n-no, not really," your boyfriend stammers, his tone speciously neutral. But he doesn't resume his work.

Even though you're not in his line of sight, you haul yourself off of the box you're leaning on and shrug. "Okay," you say.

This catches him. Tweek turns his head so abruptly so you're surprised you didn't hear a crack in his neck. "'Okay'?" he repeats, and this time he sounds incredulous.

You're unfazed; there's no further reason to elaborate, you think. And Tweek's always prying for further clarification, that's just who he is. You can navigate this like a proficient captain sailing over murky waters.

"Yeah," you say smoothly, keeping your tone neutral for the sake of your boyfriend. "I mean, I'm glad. Just makin' sure, babe." You provide a thumbs-up. "We're cool."

It doesn't appear to suffice, because Tweek's eyes are rabid with something fierce and it almost makes you lose your cool stature. Then he settles, but his brows are creasing the sides of his eyes and it highlights the eternal eyebags resting underneath.

"Can you grab some of the boxes on the high shelves for me," Tweek says to you; it doesn't come out as a question.

You oblige; it's a common task you're asked to handle, given that you're pretty much the tallest of your social circle, 'how's the weather up there' and all that. Since Tweek's parents retired early and left their son to inherit their coffee business (long groan), you're often required to do some of the heavy duties in the department of lifting and transportation.

It certainly doesn't bug you, especially since this abrupt turn to normalcy is soothing after such a terse silence between you two. You hand Tweek the box he required and give him a peck on the cheek. "There you go, sweetheart."

Tweek doesn't reciprocate, just cuts open the box and begins to sort through the contents inside. You assume you're currently unneeded, so you step outside with a brief goodbye and decide to mooch off the cafe's free wi-fi to finish up a paper. "I'll be out here if you need me," you call over your shoulder.

"Okay," is your answer, and you barely hear it because it sounds like it's being muttered through a firm set of teeth.

-

The rest of the day wasn't too busy, so you had no trouble whipping up a bullshit of an essay in less than two hours. Tweek was confident that he didn't seem to need your help, even when lunch hour came along and exhausted adults demanded their daily supply of caffeinated drinks. So you were confined to your seat as customers came and went, awaiting for Tweek's excruciating shift to finish. You sucked on a latte, watched 'Red Racer' on your laptop, ate some stale cookies that you'd found in the back; it could be classified as torturous and boring if you didn't _like_ boring, so the hours went by fairly quickly.

Tweek promised you that he could finish cleaning up after the shop closed its doors for about a couple hours, and even though you were persistent he showed no sign of relenting.

"You sure, babe?" you pry, observing how frizzy Tweek's hair has become, how unkempt his clothes were after spilling at least one drink on himself. His eyes pleaded for a nap. "I don't really have anywhere else to go right now. I'm fine with sweeping the floor or something."

He shakes his head. "Don't worry about it, Craig."

You frown. "I can still—"

" _Don't,_ " Tweek snaps heatedly, "worry about it." Then he attempts to give a smile, but it comes out lopsided and more of a sick smirk than anything. His eyes are gleaming now, but they subside when he yawns. "Just go out and enjoy your break, Craig. I'll meet up with you later."

You can tell your partner's withdrawal from sugar has taken a lot out of his system as he relapses into that desire to clean, to sweep, to do everything you can easily partake in. Besides, it _was_ a pretty long shift; but if there's anything Tweek hates, it's when people treat him like he's fragile. You're torn in two, but Tweek's reassurances seem to come off as a plea, and you digress.

"Alright," you say, packing up your things. "Just text me later and we can hang out at your place or something."

Tweek doesn't respond.

You give him another kiss goodbye — he doesn't return it, but you don't really notice. "See you, babe."

The bell above you chimes as you leave, and you give a wave over your shoulder. Tweek doesn't seem amused but after a minute he rolls his eyes and wiggles his fingers goodbye.

There's not much else to do you minute you walk out of the shop; the only reason you still visit this stupid town is Tweek and Clyde, whom haven't embarked off to college yet and are still trapped in Shitsville, USA. You suppose it wouldn't hurt to see what Clyde is up to, but given that the school schedule of South Park is different than your own, he might be in class.

You decide to check in anyway. But you pull out your phone to see that you have a message from Token, who says: _Craig is there a reason Tweek is mad at you?_

Um, odd.

Jimmy decides to butt in as you unlock your phone by sending a GIF of some cat gasping.

_wtf are you talking about_

_Dude Tweek just sent me a huge paragraph about how you have 'some nerve!!!' to ask him some stupid question,_ Token says.

Tweek didn't seem too bothered by it, though? You explain, _I just asked if we should break up he didnt care that much about it_

The group chat seems to explode after your explanation.

_Dude wtf_

_Wow, Craig_

_whoa below the belt man wtf!!!!_

You grimace. _What?? It was just a question guys I told you that he didnt care_

Clyde sends you some freaked-out emojis. _why do u wanna break up with tweek man!!! what did he do!!!!_

 _I dont want to break up, I was just asking!_ you explain hotly. It sucks that your emoji keyboard can't properly convey how irritating your friends are becoming.

 _tweek sounds like he doesnt feel the same way,_ Jimmy rebuttals.

Token: _Did he send you a message too?_

Jimmy responds, _i actually got a voicemail about it_

_Wow_

Your fingers tighten around the phone like you're ready to chuck it. _HEY ASSHOLES HOW ABOUT YOU ALL MIND YOUR OWN DAMN BUSINESS TWEEK SAID IT WAS FINE_

There's a small break from your friend's incessant typing before Clyde replies, _and u believed him?_

What? _Yea?????_

_Damn Craig daaaaaammmnnn_

_was it a happy fine or a kinda pissed fine?_ Jimmy interrogates.

_WTF I DONT KNOW. STOP SOUNDING LIKE MY THERAPIST_

_dang_ Clyde texts. _thank god ur gay dude bc u wouldnt last a day with a girl_

 _O hey Jimmy I just got a voicemail too,_ Token says.

_haha send it to me_

_Fuck you guys._ You shove the phone back into your pocket and your butt buzzes as you walk.

-

"I just _asked_ , that's all! I didn't say, 'Hey I think we should break up!' If I did _that_ , then yeah, I would understand why people would be pissed at me! But it's such bullshit that I ask a simple question and now _I'm_ the bad guy!"

You're slumped on the floor of an apartment that isn't yours, rattling off your recent troubles and letting your tongue tip loose once you've escaped the concerned-slash-disappointed interrogations brought forth by your asshole friends. It's like untying a tightened shoe, and you breathe in the freedom as you rant and rant until your words become too abstruse for proper interpretation.

You know this, and you don't care. Because you've been in this god-awful town for less than a week and you're already in a lover's quarrel.

It's fortunate — but you won't admit it — that your insensible bluster fall on the ears of Kenny McCormick. He's not much of a vocal contributor to your social group, but you like that about him. It was after middle school was but a sore memory and Stan's stupid group disbanded that you decided his company was the most favorable amongst the four. Even now, he's quiet as your hands swing and pummel through the air as you deliver your tirade. But he's attentive meanwhile.

"Like, _god!_ Sorry I was checking in on our relationship, babe! Just making sure that I'm still worth your while! Sorry that I _care_ so much!"

You finish with a grumpy huff, and the animated gestures of your arms cease as you flop back down onto the floor. Kenny observes you a minute more, with legs crossed and expression so disgustingly-neutral that it's almost commendable.

"I don't know," you say, finding that your social battery has become too drained for any other commentary. You turn to Kenny, depleted. "What do you think I should do?" you sigh, dignity be damned. But it's pointless to play the victim card with Tweek when you're objectively in the wrong. You might as well batter up and take responsibility for your next move.

Kenny contemplates, playing with the blue bracelet on his wrist that indicates that 'He/Him' pronouns are the preference of the day. He doesn't seem to take long before shrugging. "Well," he begins, "why do you think you asked that?"

Another reason you initially despised the company of a McCormick. They can dodge direct questions thrown into their court like it's a game of volleyball in the gym; further adding to Kenny's fly-on-the-wall persona. He looks like he wants to say more but doesn't, and for a second you despise him; you'll have to peel back a couple more layers before you receive your answer.

But you respond anyway, giving a long sigh first as you haul your bony ass off the carpet. "I just wanted to know, that's all."

Kenny doesn't blink. "Is it?"

And he goes for the kill. Damn that McCormick; always with an ace up his sleeve.

But he makes you think for a minute. You _do_ want to know, though; you just wanted all systems to be updated and accounted for while you were physically back in town. If Tweek had said no, you'd be...well, you'd be crushed, of course you would. But then it'd be out in the open if he was wary of you. You wouldn't have to continue beating a dead horse if that's not what either of you want.

And, if you're being honest: why _would_ he stay? You're a brick wall with anything related to sentiment, and Tweek's whole character _revolves_ around that shit! Opposites attract your ass; you're more than capable of tying him down one way or another. And it's not like you've been emotionally available either because of all your assignments and shit.

And you're terrible with FaceTimes and Skype calls too, come to think of it. You can't respond to texts in time more often than not — and, hell, sometimes you feel like you sent a fucking _emoji_ wrong when you message Tweek during class and work. But college is such a big priority because if you so much as want to _touch_ a NASA spaceship you need to _study_. And sometimes it's _hard_ to study when you homophobic dude-bro roommates bring friends over and maybe you get a bit uncomfortable when they try to make you talk to girls at parties when you just wanna huddle in the bathroom to video chat your significant _male_ other.

— So, yeah, you have a lot of evidence piling up that indicate you're a sucky boyfriend. Sorry for being so fucking cognitive that you just wanted to snuff out the unease that's worming its way into your gut.

...Well, now that you've specified _that_ to yourself, it's time to screw up your train of thought the moment you verbalize your concerns.

You're tapping your fingers vigorously on the floor when you attempt: "I don't want to lose him. I wanted to make sure that everything was okay because I've been gone a long time."

Kenny, in all his patience, nods along to your reasoning — even though you're certain that anybody who wasn't yourself could've elaborate and made it sound that much better.

"...And maybe I could've _specified_ it a little better or something, I don't know," you continue, hugging your knees with a set of crossed arms a pout chin; your nails continue to dance along whatever surface they can reach. "He should know I'm not thinking about, y'know, breaking up and stuff..."

You trail off. Your soliloquy has run its course.

Kenny leans back against the couch he's seated in front of, once he's realized that you're finished talking. You look up briefly from our huddled figure to see that his gaze is still completely indifferent, that son of a bitch.

"Tweek doesn't like curveballs," he finally begins, tone sage. "That was probably why he acted so paranoid when you suggested breaking up. You could've at least prefaced your question before you went right for the blow, though— "

In blind defense, you grunt and flip him off.

"I'm just saying that he hasn't seen you in a while and he probably assumes you've hooked up with someone else by now," Kenny rebuttals, unfazed at your reaction. "He's gotten better at that kinda stuff since we were kids, but he's still pretty charged up on all that caffeine and self-deprecation he's been sucking off since fourth grade."

"I _know_ ," you snap. "I'm his fucking boyfriend, McCormick. I know that shit. That's why _I'm_ in the wrong here because I'm a big, fat, heartless bastard that doesn't know his heart from his ass."

Kenny stares at you a moment, then his eyes flash. "You don't like curveballs either."

You stop.

"Look dude, if there's one thing that can be said about Tweek and Craig, it's that _neither_ of you like things going out of your comfort zone," he continues. "You're just different with how you handle routine, I guess. It's not like you're exactly polar opposites of each other; if anyone gets your shit outta line they just kicked up two hornet's nests for the price of one."

He stretches like a cat tanning in sunlight, like he's not dropping some form of fucking bomb on your frame of reference.

"I'm just saying, opposites hardly ever attract," Kenny shrugs. "You both need to have _something_ in common or else you wouldn't still be around and kickin' since elementary school. It just happens to be that you're both stubborn as _hell_ when it comes to getting validation and stability."

It's so weird, to hear that your subtle desires for working systems have protruded and held weight to your character.

Before McCormick can further roast you, his phone buzzes beside him and he pauses to insect the message. You watch his cheeks dust a shade of pink as he types out a quick response; when you lean forward slightly to see who he's conversing with you spot the contact labelled as 'Smiley Kyley'.

You grimace; at least you and Tweek are mature enough to know that having heart emojis as contacts are _much_ superior to just stupid nicknames.

And then Kenny puts his phone down, and his slackened frame indicates that the callout has come to a close. You unfold your uncomfortable posture just as Kenny stretches his arms over his head, revealing how short his hand-me-down hoodie and graphic tee have become.

"Karen'll be home from school soon," Kenny remarks once you're both off the floor. "You can stay for dinner if you want. Kyle is making a wicked potato kugel for Passover."

You shrug it off. "I'm okay. I have to go and think of some way to tell Tweek that he's just as big of a douche as I am."

"Nice," Kenny says, grinning. He slouches back onto the couch immediately after standing up, falling gracefully like a dainty French girl posing for a portrait. "Well, whatever you've gotta say to him, just know that you have a supporter right now, and it's this gal." He points to his own chest. You wish you didn't snort a little at his half-witted attempt of humor.

There's a second before he adds: "Also, don't worry about...wording things weird, alright? Tweek actually knows a hella more about you than you think. He's good for you, y'know."

There's some form of warmth at the thought, and it tickles your lips and you hate it because Kenny can see your unkempt expression morphing into something sweet and tender. You cover your tracks hastily with a shake of your head and a clipped: "That's gay, dude."

Your reward for that comeback is a lazy thumbs-up and a wink.

-

The dinner table is quiet, and you don't have to ask to know why.

Your former reputation of That Gay Kid Number One rusted with time, after hormones kicked in properly and everyone was kissing everybody of the same sex. But there are still some folk that keep tabs on your relationship — for nostalgia purposes, you suppose. It's a small town, and news spreads like wildfire around here — for better or worse. And, considering that Cartman's group of heathens stopped their for-shits-n'-giggles misadventures, things have been relatively calm. Which usually means that _any_ news is heightened and glamorized; which doesn't really stack up in your favor when you're home for Spring Break.

Your mother seems to be the most collected at the circumstance. She stopped being interested in your status a long time ago, and as long as you weren't hurting anybody she didn't see a reason to intervene with you and Tweek. Throughout the meal she just periodically glances at you, like she wants to prod for information but knows better, than returns to her chicken.

Your father, though. He's staring daggers through your hat as you brood over your poultry and rice. You don't want to continue to look like a wet blanket at the table — especially since you have to spend a whole week with these losers. But you're still thinking about Kenny's observations from that afternoon, and quite frankly it's none of your dad's business concerning your relationship status. And you've made it very clear to him that _yes_ , you both use condoms, and _yes_ , you'll tell him when you plan on proposing, and _no_ , he can't tag along on your dates to take pictures for social media.

You can practically _smell_ the incoming ambush of questions, so you sloppily finish up your dinner and excuse yourself before your dad decides to get brave. You slam the plates into the sink and you don't help your mother with cleaning up, but she seems too enamored by the noise you're making as you stomp up the steps, flick her off, then slam the door.

You plop into your bed with a loud huff. The fabric of the sheets is so familiar that as you relish in the fabric, it's calming. Worn from age and stained with unkindly food you could never scrub off, but it's grounding regardless. You feel your thoughts become anchored the more you focus on the touch, the surroundings, the small whiff of air emitting from the air vent above.

Fuck your dad for thinking he can keep intercepting your relationship. You're not _ten_ anymore, jesus! And so what if you gain infinite support of your sexuality when your mates at college received none? It's irritating, it's insulting, it's _stupid._ Your parents are stupid, South Park is stupid, Tweek is stupid—

You need a minute.

You pull out your phone from your back pocket and open it to find that you have no new messages. Great. So this radio silence from you friends is still going strong, huh.

 _Clyde,_ you text. At least he seemed a bit more sympathetic when word got around.

There's a painstaking minute that passes. No response.

 _Clyde._ You try again. Still nothing.

It doesn't matter if he's busy. You're angry and you feel like a bug under a microscope, and for once you want to talk about it.

_Clyde._

_Clyde._

_Clyde._

_Clyde._

_Clyde._

_Clyde._

_Clyde._

_Clyde._

_Clyde._

_OMG WHAT!???_

There he is. There's a load pressing on your chest that alleviates, and the air feels a little looser.

 _I want to talk,_ you respond.

_yea no shit. wtf dude i was gettin some mad puss action on this end!!!!_

_No you werent_

_fuck u i couldve been_

You don't roll your eyes, but you feel like doing so. _Im upset about Tweek_

Clyde replies a second too long; you watch him attempt to type out a response but flounder at your confession. It should be irritating, had it not been the fact that you've known this asshat for years and you know that if it's not sex but rather actual intimate relationship problems (gasp), he's about as useful as a doorknob.

Which is something you both have in common.

Finally, he answers: _look dude, i know u probably think he hates u or whatever but just, like, talk to him about it? he hasnt texted me about it sporadically in a couple of hours so i dont think hes that mad anymore_

You chew on your folded lips for a minute, thoughtful. _He might just be griping about me to someone else._

 _yea maybe._ Thanks Clyde. _how about you just text him urself?_ To follow this epiphany, Clyde finishes with a pensive-looking emoji.

_He could block me._

_dude when tf has tweek ever blocked u_

There's a quiet knock on the door, startling you just slightly since you're so enamored with this _very_ unhelpful conversation.

_Hold on my stupid dad is at the door_

_haha nice try dont avoid my question._ There's less than two seconds later before Clyde says, _OHHHH DUDE TWEEK TOTALLY BLOCKED U BEFORE HAHAHAHAHAHA_

"Fuck off!"

You're not sure if you were addressing Clyde or the anonymous persons outside the door, but you suppose it worked just as well.

Although you can throw your phone off the bed as it continues to buzz with Clyde's incessant teasing, your door opens anyway. You catch a glimpse of a brunette with braided hair and a firm glare, planting her hands on her hips. You roll over and try to flip her off, but the problem with family is that she's immune to your chagrin.

"Go away!" you snap, but you don't hear your sister's footsteps retreating.

Her voice is mild when she says, "Dad says you're having boy problems again."

You throw a pillow in her direction, but Tricia dodges it easily. The only affect of your spewing anger is that it's slowly beginning to spark in her own gaze.

"What did you do now?" she asks.

"Nothing! Fuck off! _Mom!_ "

Tricia advances without a care, and you're forced to acknowledge her presence as she settles on your bed to where you're crumpling the sheets between your white knuckles. God, can't people and everything just _go away?_

"Would you chill?" She sounds sharp, as always; if there's one thing about you Tuckers, it's that you cut straight to the point without restraint. And it sucks when you have to divide and conquer between your fellow asshole family members, because they're just as ambitious as you.

Your hands are shaking without purpose, and your grip disbands from the sheets. You focus on its softness.

"Can I talk now?" Tricia asks, but it sounds more like a statement than a question. And so without your consent, she continues: "I want you to remember this because I'm probably never, ever gonna say this again. But I support you in this."

 _This_ is an unsettling development. You peek over your shoulder from your miniature cocoon that you've created. "What."

Tricia scoffs, but she avoids eye contact. "I just said I'm not gonna say it again!"

" _Mom!_ Tricia's bugging me!"

"Okay fine! I'm on your side in this! Okay?!"

You settle yourself upward, your brain still processing that your little sister is actually on _your_ side even when everyone else (minus Kenny and possibly Clyde) isn't.

"Look," Tricia sighs, and you feel her weight plummet into the mattress as she exhales. "Craig, you're dumb with emotions. You're like this big brick wall that can breathe and talk sometimes. You probably don't know your heart from your ass."

"I already made that joke," you protest, but your sister's stare halts you.

"You were just asking Tweek a poorly-worded question to make sure that you were still cool, that's all," she says. "Just stop being a wuss and tell Tweek that."

Either it's a case of Groundhog Day or you're fairly certain that Kenny said something along those lines. He also mentioned that Tweek knew your flaws as intimately as one could, given that the mystery of Understanding Craig Tucker has since gone cold from neglect.

You reflect upon this through a distinct memory, where everything was so overwhelming that you took a baseball bat and continuously smashed it into a tree, because your mouth was clamped shut from an adrenaline of _feelings_ and it _sucked._ And your hands wouldn't stop shaking and you don't even remember what was so bad but every color and noise was too loud and you smashed that bat into bits and _fuck_ that was your whole allowance money and then Tweek is there, and you don't want to hear what he has to say so you snap your hands to your ears and he just waits. He waits, giving gestures to indicate where he can touch you, and finally you let him take your hands even though his skin is rough and bumpy and then he's talking slowly saying god-knows-what, probably saying something encouraging and even though his touch is like knives you let him kiss your forehead and he leads you inside to wrap you in blankets and he waits until you feel better. He says nothing and expects nothing, and when you don't want to reminisce on the overload he doesn't prod. And no one has ever done that before.

It's a memory you don't talk about because it's a stupid memory overall. But you're having a hard time denying that Tweek has seen a lot of ugly aspects of yourself, and supposedly this time isn't an exception. You suck at words, and Tweek sucks with surprises; this was bound to happen. You might as well accept that and move on.

"Hey." Tricia snaps her fingers in front of you, drawing you out of your contemplation. "Are you done thinking about your boy problems now?"

With a grunt, you sit back up and scan the floor for your phone, ignoring your sister. You find it next to your bedside, still humming from Clyde's bickering. You snatch it up just as Tricia sighs, "Mom still wants you to clean the dishes."

"In a minute." You thumb out a request to Tweek and cross your fingers that he hasn't blocked you yet.

-

Stripe settles on your lap with a complacent squeak as you absentmindedly scratch her fur. Her golden pelt is sleek and shiny, so you assume Tweek's washed her recently. She seems happy to see you, though; it's such bullshit that your dorm doesn't permit pets, and since Stripe was getting too old to travel anyhow, you decided to leave him with your boyfriend until his final days. You still came up to pick out the next Stripe heiress, though.

It's a bit excessive for yourself to feel like you had to break in through Tweek's window, with the threat of seeing him downstairs even though he's still on the clock at work. Besides, the house is empty anyways, with his shit parents that come up to visit even less than you do, and unlike them you have the excuse of classes. It's a lonely house, you can't help but think. But you'd never say it out loud because you think you'd get an earful of how maybe if maybe a certain someone _visited_ more it wouldn't seem so bad.

You'd told Tweek to meet up after his shift was done, and you have approximately five minutes until he's done cleaning and then he'll walk home and you'll have to explain yourself. But the anticipation is always the worst, especially when it comes to dealing with your very, very paranoid significant other.

You flick through your phone whilst Stripe #5 attempts to climb out of your hold, but you lock her in with crossed legs. You're still on weird terms with Token, since he hasn't bothered to show up on your social media activities; but Jimmy sent you a deliberately-outdated meme last night, so that's a good sign. Clyde just continued his incessant teasing until you threatened to disown his friendship, and the amount of crying emojis he sent caused you to relieve the claim.

It's a sudden bout of loneliness you experience when you're in Tweek's bed, unoccupied, that makes you even bother texting Kenny for company. They reply, _sorry babe, doubl d8 w/ team stendy ;ppppp_ ; to emphasize, you're sent a photo of the said team, with Kyle, Stan and Wendy waving in your direction. A bubble of disdain pops in your gut to see others enjoying romantic activities, so you just remark sourly on Kenny learning some proper grammar. They just send you a set of lewd emojis and it's enough to have you discard the phone with an eyeroll.

Besides, you can tolerate Tweek's room, in all its disorderly glory. He's cleaned up a bit since you were gone, you remark, but with a warm fondness you notice that he still kept the stars you stuck onto the ceiling. You smile.

You spot an old mug propped on Tweek's nightstand, and with a wave of curiosity you adjust Stripe in your hold so you can lean over and inspect the drink. There's nothing but chocolate-brown stains along the rim where Tweek's lips were perched, and a ringlet of the beverage resides at the bottom of the cup. There's a frown on your lips that tightens when you wonder if Tweek returned to his old habits while you were away.

"It's just hot chocolate, dumbass."

Internally surprised, externally inquiring, you turn to see Tweek with his arms crossed, positioned directly in the doorframe. His gaze reveals nothing but a faint annoyance at your intrusion; you're more disappointed by the fact that you didn't hear him come in.

You hadn't meant to seem skeptical, and with creeping shame you stand up to greet your boyfriend halfway, placing Stripe back into her pen in the process.

"Tweek—"

"I didn't—"

Both of you intercept the position of speaking, so you try again:

"I didn't—"

"Craig I—"

Hilarious.

You suck in your cheeks the moment that you spot the ambition in Tweek's eye — that he _will_ speak first damn it! — so you digress.

"Why the fuck would you ask me that if you weren't considering that?" he asks you, and by his tone it sounds like he doesn't want you to answer yet. "You can't just pull that on me out of the blue and expect me to not take it seriously!"

You shrink as he goes on, pacing through the room with tension that snaps like electricity with every footstep. Even Stripe seems unsettled, giving out hesitant squeaks from her cage. "Craig Tucker, you can easily be one of the most _insufferable_ pricks I've met and you hardly have to try! What, am I not _good_ enough for you anymore? Can't handle your long-distance boytoy staying home with a job he doesn't really want while you're out studying spaceships??"

You're close to making a pungent remark before you decide to stop yourself. It's only going to make this lecture elongated. You just hang your head like a whipped puppy when Tweek shouts, "Well??? Are you asking me to break up with you or _what,_ Tucker! Because apparently that's what's been on your mind this semester!"

"No..."

At your deflated response to his rant, Tweek's attention is grabbed when you backpedal from his pathway. He pauses, seeming to go wild-eye with a pure rage before he retracts. Breathes. His pupils swell once more when he reopens his eyes, practicing his breath. His shoulder are still sharp but they relax with time.

"Talk," he says flatly, demanding an answer.

You couldn't even explain this to Kenny without them providing some form of encouragement. Because you really, really are bad with words; you don't have to pass your upcoming English final to know that much. Tweek deserves better than some lowly asshole who talks with his hands and not his mouth, if even that. You barely had to move a muscle before you get your long-time boyfriend all riled up that he had to go to your friends for consolation.

"I'm a shitty boyfriend," you mutter, shoving your hands into your pockets, finding interest in your shuffling feet. "I figured that since I've been gone you would've caught onto that by now."

You hear a surprised note of retraction in Tweek's, "Craig—"

"I can't even tell my asshole roommates about you!" you continue, and there's some heat building up behind your eyes. "They keep telling me I should find a girlfriend and I should hook up with some girl in my Astrology Class and I don't even know her name! And it's always 'oh it's because you're a stupid fag Craig, it's because you're a fucking weakass homo' and they think it's fucking funny! Do you _know_ why I always FaceTime you in the bathroom?!"

"Craig...—"

"And god, I can't even _text_ you on time and if I do it's always, 'can't talk right now, love you, bye.' Like I can't even give you the time of day!"

"I—"

Shit you think you're crying. Noise feels like it's being filtered through cotton in your eardrums. "I always worry about you," you say, fists curling in your pockets. "And I know you hate it when I do that. So I think you're gonna get sick of me."

You hear the dull thud of footsteps, and then you spot some pale, quivering hands that hover over your frame. Your head is still tucked into your chest like there's something fascinating in the carpet beneath you. Uncertain, Tweek touches your arms, and you allow it. This encourages him to lead you to sit on his bed.

You take a deep breath, sniffing wetly. Rally your thoughts, collect the scattered pieces. You'd expect Tweek to be too overwhelmed with your outburst that he'll wrap you in cloths again and leave you be, like you're some sort of porcelain statue that can't be moved without numerous cautions.

But when you manage to look up, your partner's eyes are lucid, laced with concern but not pity. He presses his forehead against yours, and you retract a second before melting into the touch. You reach out and crumple his clothes, balling them into your fist. Slowly, your gears are becoming greased and turned.

"Do you remember," you try, "when I broke that baseball bat."

Tweek nods against your skin.

"I feel like that. I feel like that all the fucking time."

"Craig..." Your boyfriend's voice is gentle. "It's okay. I promise. I was just surprised when you said that. I should've — I should've told you that first instead of pretending like I wasn't mad."

"I didn't mean to make it come out that way."

"I know, Craig." Tweek draws away slowly, but his hands are still grasped onto your own. "But don't worry about me. And don't question how I feel about you. Ever. If I didn't want to be with you, I would've broken it off by now. It's not like the town is on my ass about my gay relationship anymore."

"Tweek—"

"I don't need you, Craig," Tweek interrupts, and your heart stops for a moment before he adds, "but I still _want_ you."

"Babe—"

"Do you think I care that you text me at weird times during the day? I'm just glad that you still think about me because, honestly?" There's a small attempt at a laugh. "I-I kinda thought you were losing interest in me? Like— like b-before you asked me that."

Tweek gestures a large shrug with his hands before clasping them back into yours like it's a magnet. "I guess I overreacted a little. I just thought that you were c-confirming my fear."

You detach one of your hands to smooth it into Tweek's sleeve, feeling the pressure in your head alleviate as you grasp onto the fabric with indecisive fingers. Tweek lets you play with his shirt a while longer, and you think he's about to retract again but you trap his arm.

"I'm not ashamed of you," you say. Tweek furrows a brow before you clarify, "Those frat douches I have to live with just aren't worth the time."

There's a flicker of understanding before he nods, and there's a crooked smirk on Tweek's face before he says, "Give me the time and place and I'll kill those fuckers."

"God," you sigh. "If I could decapitate my roommates and put their heads on a spit I'd be so happy."

Your boyfriend pats your hand in a chiding manner, but there's no candidacy behind it. "Next time, just elaborate on these things, alright? I was honestly about to block your number again, you jackass."

You groan. "I know. I suck."

"No you don't," and his chapped lips smack against yours loudly. "We're okay now, Craig."

"Okay." You close your eyes, feeling relief wash over you like waves, but externally you just provide a wispy smile. "Thanks, hon."

Tweek's hands stop shaking on instinct the moment they're touching your face, and he smiles back.

-

Token sends you some rainbow pins through the mail that reach your dorm the week after Spring Break. He explains that he and Nichole thought these would provide a passive middle finger towards your roommates, and you'd started taking them into serious consideration once Tweek clips one onto his apron for work. It may not solve much, they admit to you, but it's a start towards acceptance.

(They didn't elaborate on who exactly they were accepting, and you felt like it was for the better that they didn't explain.)

There's a week that passes before you pin the rainbow button onto your jacket, and you wear it proudly for the rest of the semester.

Tweek says it looks nice.

**Author's Note:**

> [title](http://antigonick.tumblr.com/post/171735613336/just-once-i-thought-id-found-acknowledgement) || [epitaph](http://sleepwalking.nu/pot/173136239612/i-worry-that-my-friends-will-misunderstand-my)
> 
> (sidenote: Kenny is genderfluid so that's why the pronouns shifted mid-story)
> 
> \+ pssSST this fic got some art by the lovely ichika on tumblr, [look at their work!!!!](https://ichika27.tumblr.com/post/177932283089/in-the-space-between-two-untranslatable-words)


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